


Dedication

by Kass



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Chanukah, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Miracles, still just look at them, though this is set centuries before they became ineffable husbands, what really happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:15:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21632782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kass/pseuds/Kass
Summary: Aziraphale rushed to catch up. "Where are you going, Crowley? Do you have some infernal task to complete before the sun goes down?"Crowley coughed. "Not exactly."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 136
Collections: Good Omens is Jewish and so are we





	Dedication

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laura Shapiro (laurashapiro)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/gifts).



> For Laura Shapiro, who inspired this fic and was then gracious enough to beta-read!

"An unpleasant business," Aziraphale said, his mouth pinched. They were standing at the edge of an olive grove at twilight, overlooking the remnants of battle. Groaning men and battered armor and unpleasant bodily effluvia. War never got any easier to bear; it made his heart hurt.

"The 'right side' won. That's what your lot wanted, isn't it?" Crowley walked a few steps into the grove. Aziraphale followed him, grateful to have an excuse to turn away.

"None of this was my doing, you know," he said. "It was Gabriel, most likely. And if you must know, I don't like it either."

Crowley made a noncommittal noise and kept walking.

"I don’t like the Maccabees," Aziraphale admitted. "Killing their own for failing to circumcise..." He shuddered. "Then again, Antiochus slaughtered thousands and sold thousands more into slavery. And arguably anyone who forbids text study is terrible.”

"Arguably," Crowley said dryly, "they're all terrible."

"There's good in all of them somewhere," Aziraphale insisted, pausing to get a pebble out of his sandal. When he got the strap adjusted properly Crowley was well ahead of him, walking quickly. Aziraphale rushed to catch up. "Where are you going, Crowley? Do you have some infernal task to complete before the sun goes down?"

Crowley coughed. "Not exactly." He gestured toward the city walls. "They're about to start cleaning their desecrated temple. Here, look." He concentrated, Aziraphale felt the bone-deep hum of his substance being moved to another location, and the two of them were standing in a dim and dusty storeroom off of the Court of Women, in the temple precincts’ outer courtyard.

Aziraphale miracled a bit of daylight into the room even though the angle of the sun was entirely wrong for it. All around them were large shards of crockery, and the earthen floor was dark, clearly soaked with a year's worth of sanctified oil. Antiochus’ men had shattered every urn and flagon, probably taking pleasure in the sheer wanton destructiveness of the act. Sometimes humanity was surprisingly difficult to love.

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale. Then he paused and looked at Crowley. "Being here doesn't harm you?"

Crowley shrugged. "This is just a glorified cupboard. Can't go into the very middle bit, that’s what’s filled with Her."

"Ah," Aziraphale said. Did Crowley look wistful? Surely not.

"Any road," Crowley said, "tonight when they've finished cleaning the pig shit off of the altar, they're going to need to relight that flame they keep burning all the time.”

"’A perpetual fire shall be kept burning on the altar, not to go out,’" Aziraphale [quoted](https://www.sefaria.org/Leviticus.6.6?lang=bi&aliyot=0), softly. Crowley was referencing scripture; would wonders never cease?

Crowley rolled his eyes and gave a sharp wave of his hand. The fragments of one small clay vessel reconstituted themselves and filled with olive oil.

"Crowley, that's very good of--"

Crowley held up a hand. "Don't say it. Could get me in trouble with home office."

"Oh," Aziraphale said. "Of course."

"It'll be a week before they can make more," Crowley mused aloud, "so this vial will need to last."

"Say no more," Aziraphale said, and stepped closer to hold his hand over the jar. The air between them felt charged. Performing a miracle together was surprisingly intimate, Aziraphale thought. 

He felt reality shift to match what he had in mind. "There. Eight days' worth of sanctified oil, suitable for the Holy One." The moment felt infinite, like a dust mote suspended in perfect sunlight.

And then Crowley cleared his throat and stepped back, and Aziraphale hastily followed suit, and the air was normal again.

"Best be off, someone could walk in any moment," Aziraphale said, too quickly.

"Right. I'm going to go get drunk on Syrian wine while the taverns still have it," Crowley said. "Care to join me?"

Wine did sound pleasant. "I wouldn't mind a glass. And some of those stuffed grape leaves. Oh, and maybe they'll have kibbe!"

Crowley's smile was strangely fond. "Off we go," he said, and transported them away.


End file.
